Column By Mike Bibb
Ordinarily, one would think that living in southeastern Arizona for over the past seven decades, a person should be acclimated to the climate.
That a little heat wouldn’t be a big deal, especially for a guy who’s spent a large part of his working career bumping around in a dark brown UPS delivery van on a balmy 109-degree July afternoon.
Which means it was about 137°F inside the cab.
Practically fall-like temps.
Well, I’ve gotten soft during retirement. To the point I can actually notice a distinct difference between not perspiring because it evaporates as quickly as it leaks out — because it’s hotter than hell — and droplets running off my forehead when it’s only 102.
Suppose, inactivity and age may also be contributing factors to my whimpy physique, but I accept the obvious: I’m not as good as I once was, but I’m as good as I am now.
With the help of air conditioning.
Without it, things turn to crap very quickly — including the wife’s attitude.
She’s a type of soul mate who enjoys a consistent and pleasant atmosphere, somewhere between 77 and 83. Maybe as high as 85, but that’s pushing it.
Therefore, when everything is clicking, birds are singing, and the AC is cooling, life is great. Nary a complaint, no fidgeting on the couch or “I’m sweating to death in here” remarks.
But sometimes life throws lemons, and don’t hand me that “Make lemonade” fable when hot air is blowing out of the vents. Whomever thought up that nonsense must have never been exposed to a raging wife, who’s threatening to file for divorce and claiming her share of the community property unless the broken air conditioning is fixed within the next 15 minutes.
“Hi, this is Mike Bibb. I need help. Can you send over an HVAC technician? My AC isn’t working, and I’m looking down the barrel of a. .357,” I pleaded with the guy on the other end of the line.
“Sure, Mr. Bibb. What’s your address?” is a normal response. “Okay, we can probably have a tech over there by next Thursday. We’re kinda swamped right now. This heat wave is causing more problems than usual.”
I don’t believe the AC dude realized the severity of the situation. Desperation was raising its ugly head. Plus, I was hearing four-letter words coming out of the wife’s mouth; I didn’t realize she even knew.
Trying to remain calm and reassuring her that this wasn’t the end of the world, my supplications only seemed to enrage her further.
“Sir, you don’t understand,” I pleaded. “My life is in jeopardy unless I get someone over here to get this damn air conditioner working. Please hurry!”
I could see the wife’s fingers tightening around the pistol’s handle. I think she really meant it this time.
“Yes, sir, I hear your wife yelling in the background. Sounds like she just cocked the gun. I’ll get someone over there as quickly as possible. I’ll even alert 911 to dispatch an ambulance — just in case it’s needed.”
Wow, I thought to myself, this is real customer service. I was speaking with an AC representative who actually understood what I was going through.
Furthermore, he informed me that such incidents are not uncommon, and he has successfully resolved most of them. With the exception of a couple of call-outs that necessitated police intervention, and the wounding of a husband because the crossbow misfired, he was proud to announce that his company had a +AAA Better Business Bureau rating.
That was comforting. Nevertheless, my nerves were still on edge, especially when he recommended I run out of the house as fast as I could and seek shelter behind a big tree, a pile of bricks, or some other place capable of stopping a bullet.
Never, in my wildest imagination, did I ever think a faulty home air conditioner could bring out the most primitive instincts of a normally passive woman.
Sure hope the next life isn’t all cookies and cream. Or if it is, there’s a “Forever AC unit” keeping the place a comfortable 75 degrees, 24/7.
If not, I may have to give serious consideration to weighing my other options.
